


don't bring me down

by luna_e_stelle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_e_stelle/pseuds/luna_e_stelle
Summary: He felt like he was falling, again. Like he was being thrown from the plane, concrete too close and his heart thumping too hard against his ribs. As though it wanted to jump out and run.or;exploring Peter’s fear of flying.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 98





	1. dread runs deep

This is how it started:

Wind ripping the skin from his bones and his heart hammering so hard that it was surely cracking his rib cage. The plane flew above New York City, and they threw his mask out of the door, making him watch as it got sucked into the air, fluttering down and down until it was nothing but a red speck against the buildings.

He wouldn’t fall that slow.

"Think you can survive that, Spider-Man?" One of them shouted, laughter drifting through the snapping air.

"Look —" Peter pushed back, slammed into them, only to have his knees kicked down and the scruff of his neck grabbed in rough hands. "We don’t really need to test it —"

They forced his head out of the plane, made him look down. His mind swam, eyes blurring and dizziness running through him like poison. There was a feeling in his gut; all twisted and jumpy. Everything was caught in his throat, and it wasn’t fair — four enhanced guys held him down, mocked him as he struggled in their hold.

"Have a nice flight, kid."

He didn’t go easily, but the brass knuckles to the back of his head really screwed him over.

In Peter’s mind, he knew that they’d taken his web fluid when they’d found him trying to sneak through their plane. He knew that it had been a stupid mistake to try and stowaway to find where they were going, but he’d been tracking them for months with no results.

His body didn’t seem to know that, though, and he twisted, pressed his web shooters and tried to latch onto the wing of the plane. Nothing happened, except a rush of wind bellowing in his ears and panic overtaking every thought in his brain.

He was screaming, maybe, as the city came closer, specks of light glaring past, buildings expanding, crawling closer to reach him. Maybe he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t tell.

Tiny cars littered the roads. They were growing, and he knew that Karen had alerted Tony before they’d taken his mask, knew that Tony would be racing over and tracking him. It was going to be too late.

He wondered, as he shot past the first roof of the tallest building and he grasped onto the only thought in his head, if he would be recognisable. If the concrete would cave his bones in too much for anyone to be able to identify him.

Peter couldn’t breathe. Window panes reflected him for passing milliseconds, and he didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the concrete or the cars or the people who would soon hear him falling — because he was definitely screaming, he realised. It tore at his throat; guttural sounds that disappeared in the stinging air.

His eyes burnt and he squeezed them shut, didn’t want to think or see. God, he was going to die. He was going to die. He was —

" _Peter!_ "

He didn’t have time to process the sound of his name being shouted before something solid crashed against him, before glass shattered and everything blurred and rolled and twirled around him.

Metal was scrapping against the ground, tightly encasing him, until finally, everything stopped.

The world seemed to take a deep breath in.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was the afterlife; everlasting darkness and the inability to feel, to think, to understand what was happening.

Peter couldn’t move. He could barely feel his limbs. They were numb and wouldn’t listen.

"Pete?" His name broke the swelling silence. It was Tony, he was sure, because the man’s calloused fingers were pressing against his neck and a hand was pressed on his chest, rising up and down as he breathed. "C’mon kiddo, open those eyes for me."

He felt so tired. His bones were weighted, like they were sinking into the the floor beneath him.

The floor.

Peter traced it. It was hard, but the texture soft and almost like wool. Like carpet — which didn’t make sense. It should have been concrete.

"FRIDAY, run vitals. _Shit_." Tony’s voice was shaking. It broke slightly at the end, panicking and scared. "Pete, open your eyes."

He didn’t want Tony to be scared anymore, so he did.

The darkness brightened, but only a little. There was a white roof that was shadowed and almost grey; everything was illuminated by the lights of the city. He was inside a building, and Tony was looking down at him with wide eyes and shaking hands.

Peter sucked in a breath.

"Holy shit," he choked out, trying to push himself up. It didn’t work, though. Tony’s hand, still on his chest, kept him down, and his arms felt like overcooked spaghetti, and something sharp and painful sparked up in his ribs as soon as he moved.

"Stay down, kid," Tony ordered, a bit stronger, a bit less out of control.

He blew out and shut his eyes for a moment, focused on the weight of Tony’s hand and the beautiful solidness of the carpeted ground. His heart still hadn’t calmed, and the back of his head throbbed with every beat. His whole body was swelling with pain, an undeniable ache.

"Nice —" he spoke without thinking, but Tony interrupted him.

"Don’t say it," he snapped, shaking his head. "Don’t even utter the damn words."

Peter tried to laugh, but it didn’t really come out right; too shaky and hurting and scared to be believable. Tony softened, and gently ran his fingers over Peter’s ribs, taking note which ones gave way and where he winced the most.

"Arms broken?" Tony asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Peter shook his head.

"Alright, then hold on and I’ll take you back to the compound. Make sure your ribs aren’t serious." Tony moved to help him up, but Peter grabbed him.

"No flying?" He tried to keep his tone as light as he could, but Tony always saw right through him.

"Kid, it’s a half-hour drive to the compound," he said, gripping Peter’s arm and slowly easing him up. "I won’t drop you."

"I know," he said, automatically. The terror, though, of falling, was still flowing in the wind from the busted window, in the thought of concrete smashing his bones to pieces. "Just — no flying. Please."

"Fri, tell Happy," Tony said, muttering apologies when Peter hissed as his ribs were jolted. He wrapped an arm across his shoulders, the other still gripping his arm, and slowly walked them to the lift. The suit lit up, closing its armour and shooting out the window, too fast, making his heart jolt.

Peter’s legs, too, felt exhausted. Unsteady and wobbly and about to give out. He couldn’t even tilt his head without feeling a sharp burst of pain across his chest, and there was definitely blood on the back of his pounding head, though he was sure that the gash would have healed. His eyes were stinging with exhaustion. He rested against the back wall of the lift as Tony pressed the door shut and pressed for the garage level. He was tapping away on his watch, probably erasing security footage and opening the carpark up and a million other things Peter wouldn’t even think of, when Tony flickered his eyes up, catching his stare.

"You good?" It sounded off-hand, but slightly strained. Worried.

Peter’s slight nod turned into a shake. "I don’t really…" He thought for a moment, trying to figure out what to even say. "That was… That wasn’t… fun."

A hand softly pressed against his forehead, then rested on his cheek.

Tony’s brows furrowed. "You’re skin’s clammy," he said, and the lift thudded gently as it reached the floor and the doors opened. "And pale. Don’t go into shock."

A surprised laugh, a real one, bubbled out of his throat. He winced through it, though. "I can’t exactly help it, Tony."

"Don’t _Tony_ me, either," he said, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders and helping him walk into the carpark. "I’ll tell May that you’re getting an attitude."

"Sorry, sorry." Peter stopped himself from sighing in relief when he saw Happy’s car pulling up. "I didn’t know you were sending her reports."

Tony snorted, squeezing him lightly once, before opening the car door and guiding him into the seat.

"What’d he do now?" Happy grunted from the front, glancing at Peter in the rear-view mirror.

"I got thrown out of a plane," Peter said, trying to relax into the leather as best he could. "Mister Stark caught me."

He felt Tony shaking his head beside him. "You see these grey hairs, kid? You caused a good half of them."

"Gave me grey hairs, too," Happy muttered.

"Nah," Peter said. He put a hand on his ribs, tried not to flinch as he shifted slightly. "You guys are just old."

They argued, obviously, but he found it more difficult to answer; weariness sinking into his already healing bones. He could feel them knitting themselves together, and it was taking the last bits of energy in his body to do.

Then there were fingers combing through his hair, and his too-tense muscles relaxed, and his eyes slid shut, his mind drifting in the darkness for a while, not thinking past the warm, orange glow of the streetlights passing through his eyelids.

Tony woke him — half-woke him when they arrived. He mumbled a _thank you_ to Happy, and didn’t miss the quiet _feel better, kid,_ as he got led up to the lab. The hallways of the compound were deserted, and he sat down on one of the beds they had rolled down from the med-bay, scrubbing his eyes as Tony pulled up a chair in front of him, first aid kit in hand.

"We really don’t need that," Peter said, rolling his suit down to his waist. "I think they’re already better."

Tony’s eyes were already focused on the dark bruises scattering Peter’s torso. "Just incase."

Peter nodded absently, searching around the familiar room as Tony prodded and poked until he was sure there was nothing too serious.

"Why were you in a plane, kiddo?" Tony asked, dropping a set of sweatpants and an old t-shirt in his lap. He turned away, putting the kit back as Peter stood to change.

He bit his lip, tugging off his suit and grimacing when he started to pull them on, tired mind slowly awakening again as ideas popped up in his head. "Those enhanced guys," he explained, carefully slipping his arms into the shirt. "The ones I’ve been tracking for a while, I was trying to find out where they were going."

He watched Tony’s back, hunched over a bench, his fingers tapping on the surface. "And if they were going halfway across the world? What were you going to do then, dumbass?"

Peter shrugged, then realised Tony couldn’t see him. "Called you to come pick me up, I guess," he said, walking over and leaning next to Tony, smiling at his expression. "I know they’re not leaving the country."

"Oh?"

"Yep." He started typing into a keyboard, pulling up the long list of flights and landings and pages upon pages of evidence he had collected on the screen. "The plane isn’t unregistered. Apparently _Dirty Creature Industries_ owns it, and a bunch of other planes and airstrips on the east coast."

Tony raised a brow, scanning through it all. " _Dirty Creature_ … like the song? The _Split Enz_ one? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Well, yeah, but I can’t track the company back any further." He felt a familiar twinge of frustration; one that he had been feeling ever since his investigation hit its dead end. "They made a load of shifty purchases, like airstrips and planes and medical equipment, but that’s it. It’s like it doesn’t exist. No records or paperwork other than receipts."

"I’m guessing you tried tracking where the payment came from," Tony said, working his jaw thoughtfully when Peter nodded.

Peter bit back a yawn, annoyed. Every tracker he put on their planes, every place he scouted out in New York all led to dead ends, only with a string of kidnappings and murders that had enhanced blood left at the crime scenes.

"Pete." Tony clasped the back of his neck, ducking down to meet his gaze. "Get some rest. You went through a lot of shit tonight."

He agreed, because Tony would never let up, and honestly, the exhaustion that had receded was coming back, fast, and his feet were unsteady as thoughts raced through his mind. He could work on the case tomorrow.

At his bedroom door, he dropped his head onto Tony’s shoulder. Tony tensed for a moment, like he always did when affection came out of the blue, but he wrapped his arms around Peter, ran fingers through his hair and let out a shuddering breath.

"You fucking scared me, Pete," he said softly. "I saw you just — dropping. I didn’t think I would make it."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, remembered the certainty of his death, the sharpness of the wind, the sick feeling in his stomach. He remembered the terror like it was etched into his brain. Like it had wrapped itself around him and started squeezing.

"I scared myself," he whispered.

Tony hugged him tighter. Like he would never let him go.


	2. i could lose my head

Or maybe it started long before Spider-Man. Maybe is started when he was three years old, and a plane plummeted to the ground and he never saw his parents again. Even though they had promised they would come back soon.

His parents’ death anniversary had always been worse for Ben and May. Peter didn’t really remember them; just the sense of safety, of warmth, the smell of perfume that May told him his dad had always bought for his mum.

"They were geniuses," Ben had said one year, a glint in is eye. "No wonder you’re so smart, Pete."

This year, May wasn’t home until late, and Peter spent the evening at the airstrip in New York — the one from the other day — decidedly not thinking about the date or how flustered his aunt was earlier, promising that she would be as home as quickly as she could.

He crawled inside the vents of a small, crumbling warehouse on the premises. It was better for May to be working, anyway. It kept her mind off things.

The warehouse looked deserted, and he dropped to the ground, hands trailing over the wooden crates that were scattered around.

He easily pried the roof off of one. It was empty, but the inside walls were reinforced with steel, and small holes were placed on every side. Peter narrowed his eyes.

"You think these are… breathing holes?" He asked Karen, tilting his head.

" _Possibly, Peter_ ," she replied. The display in his mask showed her scanning the crate. " _There seems to be scratches on the steel._ "

"As in—" he jumped into it, kneeling down to get a better look —"fingernail scratches."

" _I believe so._ "

He traced the tips of his fingers over one of them, swallowing. "Spooky."

The rest of the crates were the same; reinforced, breathing holes, fingernail scratches. Dried blood marked a wall of one of them, just a speck, but Peter swabbed it and closed it in a plastic bag and carefully put it in his backpack. There was a broken syringe, and he bagged it, too.

"Bet that it’s just straight meth or something," he said absently.

A call lit up his display — Tony — and he bit his lip, giving the warehouse one last look before crawling back up the wall and asking Karen to put it through.

"Hi, Mister Stark." He slugged off his backpack, pushing it through the vent opening, before squeezing through himself.

Tony’s face popped up in the corner, showing him in the kitchen of the compound. " _Hi, Mister Parker. Dinner? I’m thinking Thai, maybe._ "

Peter didn’t even have to look to see the pretend nonchalance on his face. "May put you up to this, didn’t she?"

" _Well, kind of,_ " Tony said, frowning. " _She said you might be having a rough day. Didn’t say why, though._ "

"Oh." He paused, frowning too. There was no reason why Tony would know what day it was, and the realisation that he didn’t was kind of a relief. Peter shook his head, crawling out of the building and slipping his backpack on. "Well, I’m fine."

" _You sure?_ " It was the kind of tone that sounded like Tony knew the answer already. The kind of tone that sounded like he wasn’t going to let it go until he got the truth.

"I mean…" He ignored the twinge in his gut as he shot a web at a close-by building, as he pulled himself to it, flying through the air. "I found some things I need to analyse at the lab. And Thai sounds good."

His response was met with a short sigh, and Tony’s lips quirked upwards. " _So you’ve admitted it: you only love me for the food I give you._ "

He knew Tony didn’t mean anything from it, knew that he didn’t even think about so casually accepting that Peter loved him. It made his heart warm, anyway, and brought a grin to his face. "Nope. I love you because you let me use the lab, Mister Stark."

Tony rolled his eyes, and Peter started getting into a rhythm as the industrial buildings slowly started turning into skyscrapers, easier to manoeuvre around. " _You know, adding ‘Mister Stark’ to the end doesn’t make it better._ "

"Okay, Tony," he said, skimming his feet over the tops of the trees on the sidewalk. People glanced up at him, and he guessed he wasn’t normally swinging so low.

" _I miss the days where you worshipped me, kid._ "

Peter laughed, said that he’d be there soon. When he hung up, with only the sound of the wind in his ears, the noise of the cars and people, he felt his heart thud, his stomach roll. The concrete, as he swung across the city, swum in his vision, hypnotising. He swallowed back the sudden uneasiness he felt in his chest, double-checking his web-shooters, making sure they were full.

It was just the date. The stone in his gut when he thought about it too much. Mixed with the fact that his ribs still kind of hurt with a phantom pain when he thought about the metal Iron Man suit colliding into him, the hisses in his mind that had kept him up for the past few nights, reliving the total lack of control he had, the absoluteness that Tony wouldn’t reach him in time.

The sun was setting by the time he crawled through his bedroom window at the compound. He changed and tugged a blanket over his shoulders, mouth watering as the scent of hot food trickled in from the kitchen.

Tony was humming under his breath, reading on his phone. He glanced up when Peter walked in, waving him over and telling him about a convention in town that they should go to, about how bullshit a newly released was paper about the dangers of nanotechnology, about a million things that he suddenly had a hard time keeping up with.

He watched as Tony talked through mouthfuls, happy and peaceful and planning places for them to go. Times for them to spend together.

Something felt sad in Peter’s chest.

They went down to the lab — after he ran to grab his backpack — and set down the syringe and blood-swab in their respective machines.

"It won’t take long," Tony said, switching them on and leaning back.

Peter felt him watching as he climbed on a bench and crossed his legs, as he stared off into the corner of the room.

"Pete," Tony started, but he cut him off.

"My parents died fourteen years ago, today," he said quietly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He shifted under Tony’s unwavering gaze, under the heavy silence that fell over the room.

"Plane crash, right?" Tony asked, just as quiet.

Peter nodded, flicking his eyes up quickly to look at him. The lines on Tony’s face seemed suddenly more shadowed, his brows knitted closer together. He seemed to be thinking hard, fast, working his jaw.

"It’s… different to Ben," Peter said, almost questioning. He went back to staring at the wall when Tony walked over. The stab in his chest whenever he said Ben’s name was never going to dull, no matter how much time passed or how good he and May had gotten at moving around the hole that had been left when he died. "I don’t remember them."

He picked at a thread on his t-shirt, and something heavy weighed him down.

"They would’ve loved you, Pete." Tony said it simply, factually.

He nodded. "But I didn’t get to love _them_. I didn’t get to even remember them."

Then he swallowed and looked up again, watching as Tony ran a hand through his hair, as he distractedly clenched and unclenched his left hand into fists.

"Sorry," he whispered, because suddenly he felt selfish, complaining about it when Tony had actually known his parents, had felt their loss.

Tony sighed, put a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezed. "Don’t do that. Just because other people have lost, it doesn’t mean yours is any less significant — any easier."

The ache in is heart grew, swelled with hurt. It felt carved into him, like he was marked with loss, with fear of losing anyone else he cared for. Like there was a frightened creature inside him, that was constantly there, waiting for someone else to die, or leave, or be taken away from him. It hissed with every time Tony went out on a mission, every time Ned tried to get involved in a battle, with every rage-blinded threat that a criminal unknowingly threw at May, screaming that they would kill his family.

He opened his mouth to say something, to ask if it would ever go away, but an alert buzzed up on the glass screens of the lab. It was a money-transfer by the supposed non-existent company, a _Dirty Creature Industries_ receipt being displayed.

"It’s coded," Tony pointed out, searching over it.

Peter moved to a keyboard, started running through the decoding softwares Ned had helped him make. "So it has to be more than airplanes and medical equipment, right?"

"You’d think so," Tony murmured, tapping something in his phone to Friday and standing beside him. "Still can’t track it?"

He didn’t reply for a moment, before glancing up at him. "No. I found crates in their warehouse today."

Tony raised an eyebrow.

"They had steel walls and fingernail scratches in them." He started typing again as Tony exhaled, grimacing. "I mean, it clears up that the enhanced guys I’ve been tracking are definitely the ones responsible for the kidnappings."

"But why are they kidnapping people?" He didn’t have the answer, and frustration twinged in him as another bit of code came up invalid.

Tony tapped his side until he looked over. "Yeah?"

"The transfer was to an account in Turkey," he said, showing Peter his phone. "And then somewhere in Bulgaria, then Switzerland."

Peter stopped typing, twirling around to face him properly. Swiss bank accounts, he knew mainly from _Wolf of Wall Street_ and _James Bond_ , were notoriously used when high levels of privacy were needed. They were almost impossible to track, or even discover, but one look at Tony and he knew it wouldn’t be a problem.

"There has to be some privacy laws that we’re breaking right now, Mister Stark," he breathed, but Tony just smirked.

"You said that you’d try and call me Tony, from now on." He nudged Peter gently out of the way and started working on cracking the Swiss account.

Peter hummed, distracted as he watched the screen. "I am trying. It’s a habit."

They lapsed into silence, and Peter tapped his fingers. He thought about the warehouse — maybe he missed something. Maybe there was something else on the crates or a hidden compartment that he hadn’t seen. Maybe there was the slightest hint at what they were doing with the people they had taken.

Behind them, one of the analysis machines chimed. Tony didn’t look up, so Peter walked over.

The substance in the syringe had been discovered, and it’s name flashed.

"Midazolam…" he mumbled, running through the name in his head.

The blood sample next to it chimed, the name appearing: _Frank Gorden, 32. Male. Criminal record found._

"It’s a sedative," Peter exclaimed, racing back over to Tony and grabbing his phone from the bench. "And Frank Gorden was reported missing a month ago."

He found the notes he had been taking on the missing people, and scrolled down until he found Frank. He had been fined once for speeding, arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct. He lived alone, his parents lived in Florida, and he worked by the docks. The only reason he had been reported missing was because his manager had noticed he hadn’t been in for a week.

Most of the people being kidnapped were easy to miss. None of them were living with anyone, or working in jobs that had close contact with other employees. They were low profile, only reported missing when a neighbour or a manager or a distant coworker noticed.

"Kid." Tony was looking at the screen, and Peter followed his gaze.

The Swiss account had transferred its money to one last account. To one in Wakanda.

"You don’t think…" He trailed off. The kidnappings, the medical equipment, the enhanced men.

"I think it’s a possibility," Tony said. "What else do you buy from a black market in Wakanda?"

"But why would they need Vibranium?" Peter asked, grabbing the keyboard again and checking on the decoding software. "And what the heck does that mean?"

The solution, apparently, read a string; a sentence.

_Please tell us why, you had to hide away for so long?_

"Fri, any ideas?" Tony scrubbed a hand over his face.

His fingers were itching to write something down; theories were popping up in his head, left and right, his brain was racing, barely able to latch onto a solid, single one.

" _They seem to just be lyrics from the song_ Mr. Blue Sky _, by_ Electric Light Orchestra, _boss_."

The air felt thick as Peter stared at the words, really read them. Something was sinking in his gut and prickling on the back of his neck, the same thing that happened when danger was near. They had seen his face. They had ripped his mask off and thrown it out of the plane, and pushed him straight after it.

It was probably nothing, though. They couldn’t know that he was tracking their purchases, that he had been obsessing over busting them for months. They probably just had a bad sense of humour and an even worse music taste. Their whole fake-company’s name was based off an ancient band’s song.

" _Boss?_ " FRIDAY spoke again, making him jump. " _The police have just been called to respond to a home invasion at the Parker residents._ "

"What?" Tony snapped, but Peter couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t breathe.

The air must have disappeared from the room.

The time, on the clock in the corner of the lab, read five-past-seven. May was supposed to be home. May was home. Someone had broken into their apartment.

The creature inside him — the bundle of terror and fear — was screaming.

"May," he gasped out. "Is she okay?"  
" _She was not on the premises at the time of the break in,_ " she said.

He nearly collapsed, and shut his eyes, blowing out a shaking breath.

Everything became foggy; his heart stuttered in his chest, his ears filtered words and phrases and meanings out, until they became a garbled, senseless mess. He gripped Tony’s wrist as he was lead to the garage, dug his fingers into the seat of the car as Tony sped them away, into the city. His right leg was bouncing, too fast, and he couldn’t stop it until a hand gripped his knee.

Tony grabbed his hand, held it tight as he stepped on the accelerator.

"She’s okay, Pete," he promised, but Peter wouldn’t believe it until he saw her, until she told him herself.

When the car skidded up to the curb, there were red and blue flashing lights, a barrier blocking the sidewalk.

He threw off his seatbelt, pushed through the small crowd. Tony kept behind him, a hand pressed into his back, their eyes searching for May.

"Peter!" He spotted her, next to an officer, her fingers twisting her wedding ring around, still in her work scrubs. She grinned, held out her arms as he jumped the barrier and ran to her.

"Are you okay? I thought you were supposed to be home — why weren’t you?" Peter pulled back slightly, checking to make sure she wasn’t hurt, that she was safe.

"I’m fine, baby," she promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead, soothing his hair down. "I’m fine. I just stopped to get some gas, and I came back to find the apartment totalled."

"I thought…" He couldn’t finish.

May kissed his forehead again. When he looked at her, she was blinking away tears,

"I hate today," she said, trying to smile. "Next year, we’re going to stay somewhere nice. Go to the beach and ignore everything."

Her concealer didn’t cover up the bags under her eyes, the smile didn’t hide how bad of a day she had really had. He felt something sharp prick his chest and make it ache.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "I was supposed to be home earlier. I just got… caught up in everything."

She shook her head, looking at him sternly. "Don’t you dare start that."

"This is your nephew?" The officer interrupted.

They pulled away, but May kept their fingers laced together.

He felt Tony come up behind him, saw the officer’s face change as she recognised him. "Did they take anything?"

She gaped, just for a moment, before shaking her head and composing herself. "Uh, no. Nothing was taken. This was found in Mister Parker’s room, though."

The officer held up a ziplock bag. In it was a piece of lined paper, with words written in pencil.

_One step ahead of you, time is running out, catching up with you._

Tony slipped on his glasses, squinting, but Peter already knew.

"Ms. Parker said that they don’t make have any meaning," she said.

Tony shrugged indifferently, but he put his hand on Peter’s back again. "They’re just lyrics, apparently."

When Tony pulled him away from the officers, out of earshot, there was a distinct sort of panic rushing through Peter’s blood, an anger pumping alongside it.

"They could’ve gotten to May," he said, setting his jaw. "I won’t let them."

"We’ll keep her safe," Tony agreed.

Peter shook his head. "You, too. If they know who I am, then they know how close I am with you. I won’t let them hurt you."

Tony’s eyes softened. "I can handle myself, kiddo."

Peter bit his lip. "I know," he said. The fear was clenching his heart, making ice form inside him. Making him feel like he was falling all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i know where the story's going now but also ,, it's me ,, so who knows ?
> 
> also i'm just straight up vibin listening to all this 70s and 80s music, like it's top tier shit
> 
> ok i love u all <33 thanks so much for reading xx


	3. my despair is drying, draining into rage

Peter didn’t remember the night of homecoming very clearly. Sometimes at night, his eyes would slip shut and his mind would conjure up a distorted version of Tomes; blistered and gruesome and inhuman underneath the Vulture’s helmet. Sometimes he would jerk awake, heart racing as he imagined slipping from the plane as the wind tore at his skin until it ripped right off; he knew what that felt like, now. He knew what it felt like to fall for thousands of feet and expect the smash of concrete on his bones to be the last sensation he would ever feel.

To run on three hours of sleep and seven espresso shots probably wasn’t the best choice that he could have made, retrospectively. The thoughts were tangling in his head, sharp and clear, pushing everything else from his mind. Peter was good at shrugging things off. His first almost-girlfriend’s dad had been an illegal arms dealer trying to kill him? Sure. Iron Man had picked him out and chosen to mentor him and had, for all intents and purposes, become family to him? No big deal.

Peter stumbled, scuffing his sneakers on the sidewalk.

"No, I’m like… having a breakthrough," he said to Ned, holding the phone to his mouth despite the mic on his headphones.

But, for some reason, he just couldn’t shake off the last few weeks. He felt unsteady, lately. Anxiety was something he wasn’t great at dealing with, but there was a pit in his stomach whenever he tried to work the case.

Or when he swung to high, or fell too fast.

" _Are breakthroughs normally so insomnia-inducing?_ " Ned asked. He sounded distracted, but Peter was basically vibrating as he walked through the cold New York streets, gripping his coffee tight.

"I mean, for me?" He slipped down into an alleyway, taking a swig of his drink before throwing it in the dumpster. "Yeah. Normally, anyway."

His fingers tapped on his thigh as he watched the alleyway entrance, waiting for people to pass.

" _Hey, I’m sending you through the profile for the latest missing person._ " From the other end of the phone, he could hear Ned’s chair creak as he leaned back.

"Thanks, man," Peter said, checking that the coast was clear one last time. He gripped the brick wall and started climbing, quickly. "You didn’t have to."

" _Uh, I’m the guy-in-the-chair. It’s kind of in the job description_." Ned declared it so matter-of-factly that Peter grinned as he pushed his bedroom window up and dropped inside.

His room was the same as he had left it two weeks ago: clothes that he hadn’t hastily packed littered the floor, his bed unmade, his desk still torn apart from his stalkers. No DNA evidence had been left behind, nothing had been taken. The apartment had been trashed, and the single, handwritten note was their calling card.

" _You told me to remind you about the chemistry assignment, too,_ " Ned said. " _Have you started?_ "

He groaned, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "I’m dropping out — of school. Become a full-time spider and live off Mr. Stark’s scraps."

" _Want me to send you my answers?_ " Ned asked lightly. He sounded so understanding, and guilt stuck in Peter’s throat.

"No, dude, it’s good." He shuffled through a few of his notebooks, slipped the ones full of casework into his backpack.

" _You sure?_ " Ned knew that his work-life balance wasn’t much of a balance at all. Every few months he would get so wrapped up in a case or a string of crimes or a drug trade that school would become all but meaningless.

It made sense, to Peter. People’s lives were on the line, so how could a few quizzes compare? Except, May didn’t want him putting Spider-Man in front of Peter Parker. She was so proud of him for being a hero, for saving lives, he knew. But, they both also knew that he couldn’t let it destroy his own life. That he couldn’t be on superhero duty twenty-four-seven.

"Yeah. Yeah, all good," he said. "I’ll get Mr. Stark to help me."

When May had found out about Spider-Man, when he had come clean about the internship, she had called Happy and scared him into giving her Tony’s number. She told Iron Man to shut up three times on that phone call, and demanded that he take responsibility for the suit he had given to her kid, that he ensured, to the best of his God-given ability, Peter’s safety. Peter had thought his heart would actually give out — he had hoped it would, anyway — and thought that he would never hear a word from Tony Stark ever again.

Maybe he feared May’s wrath, though, because he started asking Peter to the compound, went out on a few patrols with him. Somewhere along the line, Tony had stopped being an untouchable, superhuman figure. Somewhere along the line, Iron Man stopped being Peter’s hero. Tony Stark took that place, now, instead.

He could tell, immediately, that they wanted to talk to him. They forced conversation as he picked at his dinner, leaning his head on his hand as he watched them dance around whatever it was, and it was only when Tony brought up the weather for the second time that Peter sighed and put his fork down.

"Guys." Their eyes snapped over to him. "Just... tell me. What is it?"

May shook her head fondly, smiling apologetically. "It’s not a big deal, baby."

"It’s always a big deal when you say that," he argued, looking to Tony.

But Tony was unreadable, staring at the far corner of the table and tapping his fingers.

"Look, Pete," she said gently. "Nothing’s happened for two weeks, and my paid leave is almost up."

The pasta he had been picking at suddenly seemed heavy in his gut. He shook his head, eyes widening, muscles tensing as if he were getting ready for a fight. "May —"

"We understand that you’re hesitant. We get it." She sat up straight and tilted her head, reached across the table to grab his hand. "But our lives can’t stop because some asshole figured out where we live."

He stared at their entwined fingers. She always wore two rings; one of them, her wedding ring, was simple and golden, with a small speckling of diamonds. The other had been a fortieth birthday gift from Ben and him. Peter had only been ten, but he remembered pressing his face against the glass cases of the store and babble about which ones they should pick — it ended up being a deep red garnet, roughly cut into the shape of a heart. Her heart, she had said, smiling, when she unwrapped it. The heart that her two boys gave her, that she could keep with her wherever she went.

Tony was watching him now, too.

Words piled on his tongue, heavy and sour, but his mouth couldn’t open. There was a creature inside him, like always, chewing up his heart and slithering between his ribs, leaving only a sharp, rotting panic in its place.

He thought about his parents.

He thought about Ben.

"Okay," he whispered, his mouth moving without him telling it to.

They’ll stay in the compound, she told him. She’d only be going to work and be coming straight back. He felt like screaming.

He helped clean up dinner. Scraped plates and loaded the dishwasher. They sat in the lounge room and watched TV, and something was tearing up his fucking lungs.

Tony retired to his room, and he watched May debate with herself whether to take her shoes off or not. He knew she wasn’t comfortable living at the compound. She didn’t think of the place as her second home, after all. The compound could be overwhelming, with stone floors and high ceilings and an unsettling silence that was cold and lonely, but she didn’t spend late weekend nights down in lab, early mornings in the kitchen watching Tony burn pancakes.

She had to know that a bit of discomfort was worth it, if the alternative was danger. He wanted to tell her, to beg her to just give him more time, another week, another day to find the culprits.

May kissed his forehead, brows creased when she asked him if he was staying up.

He nodded. Watched her walk away.

Down at the lab, he stared at missing persons reports, at flight logs and unregistered planes and transactions that only led to titles of old 80’s music. It all jumbled together until he could barely tell letters apart from numbers and suspects from victims.

He groaned, stretching out his neck. His phone read eleven-thirty, and the text from Ned, reminding him of the chemistry assignment, sent a jolt through his chest, made something heavy press against his sternum, something thick swell in his throat.

Shaking fingers unzipped his school bag and took it out. He stared at the pages, placed it on top of the police reports.

"Fri?" He asked tightly. "Is Tony awake?"

He didn’t go into Tony’s room, usually. It was jarring to be walking the hallway there, to knock on the door, clutching his assignment and feeling like there was barely enough air in the world.

Tony swung the door open, in sweats and an old, worn, oil stained t-shirt that he normally wore when he was showing Peter how to fix up cars. It made him think of rainy afternoons spent in the garage, AC/DC playing softly in the background.

"This is due tomorrow and I haven’t started it," Peter blurted out, eyes stinging. "And I can’t — I don’t want May to go to work."

Tony opened the door wider and let him, gently grabbing his arm and sitting him on the edge of the bed. He uncurled Peter’s fingers and took the creased paper, scanned over it, before scooting back against the headboard and grabbing a pen from his beside table.

He patted the space beside him, waiting until Peter was next to him. He flipped to the back page — the hardest questions. Started working through them, asked Peter what equations to use, what they were trying to find. It was easy to focus on, good for slowing down his breath, but the back of his mind tingled, hyperactive and electric and thinking too fast.

"Kid, you’re working yourself too hard on this case." He flicked pages to the multiple choice, and Peter brought his knees up to his chest.

"They know who I am, Tony," he whispered. "They know who May is."

Tony circled an answer. "I get it. You think I haven’t driven myself — insane — knowing that there’s always gonna be assholes out there, trying to hurt the people I love? Knowing that Pepper is always going to h **a** ve a target on her back because of me? That you could?"

He felt like he was falling, again. Like he was being thrown from the plane, concrete too close and his heart thumping too hard against his ribs. As though it wanted to jump out and run. "She won’t be safe."

"I’ll help you find these guys, Pete." Tony put the pen down, looked at him right in the eyes. "Whatever you need, I’m here. But May’s right. You can’t stop living because of their half-assed attempts at threats and shitty music taste."

"Promise me," he said, and the words were kind of ripped from his throat. He was teetering on the edge, ready to fall apart. Everything lately was too much; exhaustion raked his bones, anxiety bubbled under his skin. "That this is a good idea. That she’ll be safe."

Tony studied him, thoughts racing beneath. "I promise."

He wanted to tell Tony that he trusted him, more than anything. He wanted to say that he loved him, that — just like May — he couldn’t lose him; that it would destroy him if he did. That it would shatter his soul into pieces if either one of them was hurt.

Peter just tipped sideways until his head was on Tony’s shoulder. He hoped the message got through, because his tongue got tied again. Nothing would come out, even if he tried.

May had snuck into his room before she left and kissed his forehead, her soft hands cupping his cheeks and her silk words threading together in his still half-asleep mind.

He managed to laugh at Tony before school, when he knocked his coffee mug over the paper he was reading. He ignored the icy absence of May, the tug of anxiety that traveled through him, along his spine and up to the back of his neck.

He got through English and Math by tapping his leg too much, tapping his fingers and tugging on his hair.

He thought about Ben at recess, until MJ made him a mug of her tea, giving him one of her rare, pretty smiles. He let her scroll through his Spotify, watching the way her nose scrunched up when she found a song she didn’t like, the way her lips lifted up again when there was one she did.

In Chemistry, he handed in the assignment and sat next to Ned, feeling calmer by the minute.

" _Peter Parker_ ," a voice rang through the PA system. " _Please make your way to the front office._ "

In the back of his mind, the thought short-circuited. His gut sunk, the skin on the back of his neck pricked. His hands shook with every step. He knew, deep down. His subconscious knew.

Tony was there, pale, wide eyed, heart pumping loudly.

"Pete," he said, rushed. "I’ve got teams out looking for her. Friday is tracking everything, looking for something we might have missed. We’re gonna get her back."

He felt like he had risen out of his body, on the drive home. Like he was an outside spectator. Tony held his hand, but he didn’t grasp it back.

There was something shattering inside him, like a glass that had been thrown against a wall. In his chest, a deep, dark, red anger started growing, something spiteful and poison and sharp. The feeling sunk him back down, until his limbs shook with rage.

"You promised," he said. The look in Tony’s eyes — self-hating, sorrowful, despairing — gnawed down to his bones. "You promised me."

"We’ll find — We’ll find her, Pete." The words sparked the deep red inside him, made it burning hot and overwhelming, too much.

"I _trusted_ you!" Skin was being ripped away, screams being stolen from his throat. "I knew — I fucking _knew_ this would happen, but I _listened_ to you!"

Tony held his hands up, stricken. "I know, and I’m sorry —"

Peter slammed his fist on the marble counter, breathing hard. It cracked. "You promised. You promised."

The edge that he had been teetering at — he had fucking fallen over it. With every pulse of his heart, every beat, it sunk in. The pure terror that was in his blood, pumping through his body, was jumbling his thoughts, leaving only one thing clear.

May had been taken.

May was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed the title to another electric lights orchestra song instead and all i can think about at the moment is animal crossing and how i'm 600k in debt to tom nook
> 
> but ,, the story continues and i now have a vague idea where this is going and i'm taking u lovelies along for the ride 
> 
> also i feel like i should mention that previous chapters may change slightly cause i'll just go back and edit them because i get in moods where i hate my writing lol
> 
> thank u so much for reading and the next chapter will be out a lot quicker i promise xx <3


	4. super trouper

He couldn’t fucking breathe. Not one particle of air could get into his lungs. His legs collapsed and he slid down the wall, shoulders wound tightly enough that shoots of pain were sparking across his back.

"C’mon, Spider-Man," he choked out, pressing his head against his knees. "Come on, get it together."

He felt insane. Like he was losing his mind. Like he had lost the ability to think, to move. He heard screaming in his head, he saw Ben’s pale face and blood stains on his hands that would never wash off. He saw May’s eyes darkening, her head lolling to the side, lifeless, her throat slit or a bullet shattering her skull. Then there were his parents, plane crashing, people screaming, then Tony, dead eyes vacantly staring off, into the distance —

The elevator in the hallway opened. Even over his wheezing, gasping breaths he could hear footsteps getting closer to the apartment.

Peter was out of the window, tugging on his mask before Tony could even open the door.

The wind slashed at him, thick, dark clouds not letting the sun shine through. Peter skimmed the roof of a building, skidded across the gravel and rolled until his was on his back, looking at the dreary sky through blurry eyes.

He ripped his mask off, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe.

Inside, there was panic. It was tidal wave, an all consuming mass that encompassed everything, that was taking over every thought, every emotion. The world was too fast, the wind too harsh, the city too loud. He couldn’t breathe.

He rolled the gravel between his fingers. Choked on more air. His chest heaved and a drop of rain landed on his forehead, icy cold and stinging.

May was out there, somewhere, probably hurt, and he couldn’t even catch his breath.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, forced in a shuddering inhale. And another, again and again until the world stopped swaying and the screaming in his head quieted to a buzz, a hum of terror.

His heart hurt. It was weighted, like a hand was pressing down on it, like it had been worn down into nothing but dread. Fear. He pictured a creature, lurking in the shadows of the darkness of his closed eyes. It was thin and spindly and just as scared as him.

Find May.

That was all he had to think about. Nothing else.

Nothing else mattered. Not his body, slowly deteriorating as the hours unwound into days, as fear strangled him, as loneliness crushed him.

It was nightfall by the time he had swung to Ned’s and crawled through his bedroom window, the rain long since faded into a still night. Ned was speaking, quickly, rambling. He was freaking out, asking how he could help. Peter wasn’t sure how Ned knew about what had happened. Maybe Tony had told him, asked him to keep an eye out.

The thought strengthened the prickling anger, helped him focus.

"Take the tracker out," he said quietly. "I need you to take the tracker out."

Ned blinked, stepped back slightly. "Uh, Peter, I don’t think…"

"Please." Peter could never say no to Ned, just as Ned could never to him.

He sat facing the back of Ned’s desk chair, wringing his mask in his hands.

"Are you — are you sure about this?" Ned sounded more than hesitant, but Peter clenched his jaw.

"Yeah." It was stubbornness, maybe. Anger. Betrayal, he told himself. Past the fog of panic and the buzz of fear, a quiet voice whispered that he wasn’t mad at Tony, that he was mad at himself. He needed to take responsibility for getting May hurt. He needed to stop blaming Tony. "Ned, please."

He felt Ned trace his fingers over the black spider on his suit, and a moment later the small tracker was dropped on the desk, with the pair of tweezers.

Peter mumbled a thanks, asked for all the files he had on the case.

He was half out of the window, mask on, folder in his arms, when Ned spoke. "He’s worried about you."

His fingers tightened around the windowsill.

"I’m worried about you, too — obviously. And I’ll do — whatever I can, dude. We can help," he said, earnestly, honestly.

"No." Peter’s voice cracked and his shoulders tensed. "Stay out of this, Ned. I need you to stay out of this so they don’t get you, too."

"Then let Mister Stark help you." He heard Ned take a few steps closer. "He’s _Iron Man_. He called me — told me look out for you."

Peter turned, his eyes narrowing as he met Ned’s. They were wide, pleading, but they darkened, turning serious.

"But I’m not asking you because he told me," he said. "He cares about you, and he can help save May."

A lump swelled in his throat, his heart stuttering.

He shook his head, minutely. And then he jumped from the window, into the night.

Peter startled awake. A familiar sound of repulsors was closing in, and he pressed his hand against his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. His neck was strained, his legs asleep, but the warehouse was hardly any lighter. He hadn’t been passed out long, and it quelled the frustrated panic at himself growing in his head. He hadn’t lost too much time.

He quickly shoved the papers and pens that were scattered around into his backpack and shrugged it on. There was a clank of an Iron Man suit outside, then metallic scrapes as the suit opened, then the door squeaking, as it slowly swung open.

Tony spotted him straight away, automatically looking him over, checking for injuries. The lines on his face seemed harsher, the few greys in his hair darker, in the shadows of the doorway. He stepped in, closer, and Peter set his jaw, tightened his hand around the strap of his backpack.

"How did you find me?" Peter’s voice, though spoken quietly, was loud in the dense silence.

He let out a short, heavy breath, tilting his head. "Because I know you, kid."

"Still took you three days." There was something hot swirling in his chest, thick and sharp. Overwhelmed. He didn’t know if he wanted to yell or collapse or cry.

Tony shrugged, too forcefully casual. "You’re quick."

He let the feeling drain into irritation. It was easy — the least exhausting option. "Because I don’t want you to catch up."

"Pete, I screwed up," he said, coming closer. His voice was sturdy, steady, and it made Peter tense, made shattered glass inside him prick, made the molten, red anger stir. "But I can help fix it."

"I don’t care—" he ran a hand through his hair roughly, pulling at it—"I can handle this myself."

"Just come back to the lab with me," Tony pressed. "We can — group together. Clear our heads."

"No." He didn’t want to deal with this. His head pounded, the last remnants of adrenaline finally draining from his blood, even if he still felt the same intensity of panic as he had three days ago. "There’s no ‘us’ in this, okay? I’m doing it on my own."

"Look, I get that you’re mad, but we can do this faster if —"

There was a scream building in his throat, rising up from the rage beneath his ribs and through the fuzz in his brain. "You didn’t listen last time —"

"I know — and I’m sorry — but can _you_ listen now?" Tony’s brows were furrowing, his shoulders tensing.

"Why should I?" He almost laughed it, and his head pounded again, his mouth turning into a scowl.

"Pete, we _will_ find her, but before that, May would want me to look after _you_ —"

"You don’t have to look after me — You’re not Ben!" It was flash of red, a spike in his heart.

And then there was quiet.

Then something sour and sick crawling up Peter’s throat as he watched Tony’s face, watched his eyes dim. His stomach dropped, his heart pumped. He couldn’t breathe. The silence swelled, but his brain was screeching at him, at his failure. He couldn’t protect May, ruined everything he touched. Everything he loved was falling apart, crumbling away, right in front of him, and as he met Tony’s eyes, he felt a jolt run through him.

He pushed past, out of the warehouse, breaking into a run while Tony called his name.

Tears clouded his eyes, sobs ripped from his throat. He swung near blindly through the city until he collapsed onto the roof of his apartment building, a semblance of safety. But he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve safety or the comfort that the fading presence of May brought him.

Peter curled into himself, against a dirty brick wall, and cried through clenched teeth and an ache in his heart that would never disappear.

The words that had fallen from his lips were laced together to hurt Tony. That had been their purpose. He had let his fear boil into rage, had needed to lash out, to break something.

By the look in Tony’s eyes, he had.

There was a splinter inside him, and he wanted to go back in time, wanted to forget the past few days, the past few weeks. He didn’t want this to be real.

May was gone, and he had hurt Tony. He felt sick. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to take back every angry thought he had ever had, every mean word he had every said.

He pressed his hands against his eyes, through the mask, and forced in a few useless breaths. His limbs were like water, like silk, near impossible to force up. But he did, because no matter how much he screwed up, May was still out there, taken.

He dropped down into the alleyway, unsteadily. Out of habit, he scanned the street, back up to his window, down the other end. There was a sheet of paper, folded neatly in the middle of the concrete, and he sniffed, rubbed his arms, before reaching forward and picking it up.

_Can't you see you belong to me?_

_How my poor heart aches with every step you take._

His neck pricked, muscles going rigid. He stood, head spinning, bated breath. From both directions, four men walked into the alleyway. He recognised them. He couldn’t forget the faces of the men that had thrown him from a plane.

"Hey, Spider-Man," the tallest said. He had two black eyes and a busted lip, and Peter only just jumped out of the way before they came at him, throwing punches and reaching out to grab him.

A kick landed on his side, and he shot his webs out, pinning one’s arm to the wall. He threw a punch, dodged with gritted teeth as he tried to keep focused.

The needle went right through his suit when the tallest got his hands around his neck, shoved him against the wall.

He wondered if he would ever see Tony again. If he could ever apologise.

Steel walls, all around him. The box was too small. He couldn’t breathe.

He wanted Tony.

He tried to shout for help, but his throat was too dry. All that came out was something small, and quiet. He tasted salty tears on his lips.

The world faded, again.

Peter held on, to the fleeting consciousness. To the ability to string a thought together. He was crammed in a box, scratches littering the walls, breathing holes scattered around him.

He shuffled onto his back, blinking heavily, and kicked the roof as hard as he could.

Blood pulsed in his ears, but the roof flew off, and he gripped the edge of the container, groaning as he pulled himself out, as he collapsed on the floor. He saw legs, felt fingers on his skin, and he tried to knock them back, grunting as something stomped on his hand, his stomach, his cheek.

"What, you want me to throw you out again?" Someone grabbed his collar — where was his suit, he needed his suit — and dragged him, pressed him against freezing glass and let him see a minute city below. "Is that what you want?"

"No," he gasped, pushing back, trying to scramble away. "No, no, please, don’t —"

The needle jabbed him again, sliding into his skin.

He traced the steel with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard the plane begin to land. Tried to start breathing, tried to stop shaking.

They pulled him out, shoved a bag over his eyes and gripped his arms too tight as he stumbled. Leaves crunched underneath their feet, until a metal door swung open, and their shoes thudded against a concrete floor. There were sounds of others; distant and quiet. His skin pricked with danger.

He was pulled through another doorway, and it had to be inside, because there was carpet and the sound of a rusting radiator running. And then there was a muffled scream.

The bag was pulled off, and he saw May being held, a piece of cloth wrapped around her mouth. Her hair was knotted, her skin flushed with anger, but she didn’t look hurt.

"May." He surged forward, only for a fist to slug the back of his head, for him to fall to his knees, held up by rough hands. She was shouting, struggling and kicking, and he tried to clamber up. "May!"

The young man that held her was smiling, ever so slightly. "C’mon, now," he said. He pulled the cloth away from May, barely reacting to her as she tried to step on his feet.

"Peter!" His head felt clearer than it had in three days.

"Let her go," he bit out, glaring at the man.

He snorted, raising an eyebrow. "So, you trade yourself for her, then?"

Peter stopped short, studied the guy. He looked young, maybe in his early-twenties. He was completely unassuming, no scars, not overly built, could pass for a college student. "Yes," he said. "Me for her."

" _No._ " May struggled more, but the man held her as if she were a pencil, a twig. Something he could snap very easily. "Peter, don’t —"

He gave a look to one of the men, and they pulled her from behind the desk, towards the door.

Peter’s heart caught up, started pounding. "Stay with Tony," he said as she passed, rushing it out. "He won’t let anything happen to you."

He knew that Tony wouldn’t, as he heard her screaming his name down the hallway, getting taken away from him again. Even if he had fucked everything up, even if he had spat something spiteful and cruel, Tony was still the best man he knew. Tony still had to love him, because he didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t. He had to hold onto that, and never let go.

"Sit down, Peter," than man said, he was pushed into a seat in front of the desk.

Peter blinked, swallowed quickly, because May had been there, because he had found her, and now she was gone. He shut his eyes, just for a second, pictured a lazy weekend morning watching talkshows, light and laughing and happy. He thought about the compound, tried to think about Tony combing his fingers through his hair, sprawled on the couch. He tried to imagine anywhere that wasn’t reality. And then he opened his eyes again.

"My name’s Nathan Wright," the man said, grinning. "Let’s talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've actually been under anesthesia and like drugs and shit for surgery before and i tried to convey what it felt like briefly  
> i can't actually remember thinking anything..... at all .... it was all just images and me saying things that i processed later  
> idk its weird man
> 
> anyway  
> drama ! yay!!  
> we got a full fledged story with plot and everything now
> 
> thank u lovelies for reading, i love u , and update should be soon

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is @lagalassie
> 
> idk how many chapters this is gonna be but i'm thinking 3? maybe 4  
> and also i'll come back and edit this all tmrw when my brain isn't dead so please ignore any mistakes i swear i'll fix them bahaha
> 
> anyway thank u so much for reading my loves, i love u <33


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